


This World of Ours

by ashtopop



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, in a lot of ways this serves as my playground for ideas that may come up in other fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashtopop/pseuds/ashtopop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feet like the first deep breath she’d taken in two years. He was always her anchor, no matter the glow in her palm. A haven in Haven. The man who gave his life for the future in one that didn’t exist, but left her in this world for “in another.” Ideas that show up in this collection may be explored further in my other fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Accidental Tent Cuddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solavellan drabbles. Ongoing, vaguely connected, featuring Female Lavellan/Solas and probably a lot of fluff. Definitely a lot of angst.

“Oh no, I’m not sharing a tent with him! He’ll probably be muttering about _elven glory_ all night.” Lavellan looked over at Solas who was, in fact, studying an inscription on the wall with apparent fascination until her antics began.

On the other side of the fire, Sera mocked Solas by fake snoring, punctuated by an outburst of “Arlathan!” Iron Bull laughed at the impression, then coughed to pretend he hadn’t as he caught sight of Solas’ glare.

“Alright, Sera, you’ll fit in the tent with Bull as well as I would.” Actually, all three elves would probably fit better in the small tents they’d brought than Iron Bull would fit in one, but Lavellan couldn’t—or didn’t want to—imagine being the middle of _that_ elf sandwich. It would probably taste like misery, she thought, like the Orlesians enjoyed, or like a lot of spilled blood.

Camping in the lost temple of Dirthamen, which was both very wet and very cold, was not anyone’s idea of a fun time. It was necessary, however, given how long they’d taken cautiously exploring the dark chambers and arguing about whether it was wise to perform a ritual consisting of amputated body parts and long gone elven gods. (Iron Bull and Sera were steadfastly against it, but Solas and Lavellan seemed to share the same morbid curiosity.)

The small tents were already set up—small enough to fit indoors, if the ruined temple really counted as indoors, and Solas, apparently, had decided he was done with conversation for the night. He ducked into the tent nearest the entrance with a stern “good night." 

“You go to bed, Boss. We’ll wake Solas up for third shift,” Bull said, surely noticing the longing exhaustion that called Lavellan to her bedroll. She nodded, standing, her hands brushing off her knees.

Lavellan stripped off her boots outside the tent, then pushed open the tent flap. Solas had courteously pulled his bedroll tight to the side of the tent, giving her as much space as he could. It still wasn’t much, she thought, but then she realized her extravagant Orlesian bed back at Skyhold had spoiled her.

She laid out her bedroll on the opposite side, taking off her leather coat and setting nearby gently. Despite the damp chill, she took off the rest of her leathers as well—she knew from experience that the comfort of not wearing them was worth the chill. Then she tucked herself into her bedroll with a happy, weary sigh. _Finally_. _Sleep_.

She was glad they had already activated the elven artifact Solas said would strengthen the veil, which meant she could no longer feel it pressing in on her like it had before. Instead, it was a feather-light touch on her mind, like a caress. It didn’t take long for her eyes to drift shut and her breathing to slow and even.

The temperature plummeted in the night. Outside, Sera and Bull huddled inches from the fire, trying to dry the dampness that had settled into their bones. Inside the tent, however, there was no fire. Some time in the night Lavellan had strayed from her side of the tent, her restless sleep plagued by the cold and the relentless pursuit of her responsibilities. Those dreams were not unique to this night. The cold, however, had her remembering another cold—one where the bitter desperation and pain hadn’t stopped the snow and ice from seeming to seep into her very soul. 

She hadn’t hesitated to take up the human custom of boots after they reached Skyhold, or the heavily draped furs and embroidered fabrics of their beds. Solas had provided sanctuary then, and he provided it now as she unknowingly pressed against him in the night. His own mind was so far from his body, deep in the fade memories of Dirthamen’s Temple, that he did not wake to stop his body from pulling her closer, his arms wrapping around her as her head settled on his chest.

Her shivering stopped soon after his fingers wound around her arm and her dreams turned to the simpler memories of rebuilding Skyhold’s garden, her fingers in the dirt and a swipe across her nose because her clan had never settled down long enough to watch something grow to harvest. The dark guilt that tainted his memories of the temple was replaced with happier times and memories of a time when he hadn’t always hunted alone. 

He woke to her soft breath puffing on his chest and a shuffling outside. Bull poked his head in, tilting it so his horns would fit past the middle support, but before he could speak he noticed their sleeping positions. Solas’ eyes were open now, but Bull didn’t comment beyond the knowing look one eye could impart.

“I’ll take next watch, too—this place gives me the creeps.” With that, he ducked back out. Solas knew he should shift, perhaps wake her and pretend to still sleep, or at least gently extricate himself. What he knew, however, and what he _did_ were two different things. He did not move, not until she woke hours later with a contented stretch that pushed her head almost to his chin.

Her spluttering apology by the campfire later seemed sincere, but the Dread Wolf knew a lie when he saw it. Her wide, guileless eyes held a spark of rebellion even as she voiced the courtesies she felt required and the easy comfort she held in brushing his shoulder with hers told more than she knew.


	2. post-romance, pre-ending angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-romance, pre-ending angst Solas POV

He has no right to be there, he knows. And yet he can’t help wondering if she was as careless with her body as he was with her heart. Or perhaps because of? That thought he ignores—pride has always been his weakness, after all, and it his that arrogance that would have him think the inquisitor would endanger herself and the inquisition over heartbreak. Over him.

(She is also being careless with his heart, but he is not supposed to think of her like that anymore, so he attempts not to.)

Her hair is messily plaited in Tevinter style, the blood carefully scrubbed out of it. It still fans across the pillow, the fine strands like ink spilling over the pillow. Lavellan often wears her hair in braids, though not these braids. It is surely Dorian’s handiwork, and he feels a surge of good will toward the man sleeping in a chair at the inquisitor’s bedside, a book overturned in his lap.

(He would have braided her hair like they had in Arlathan, with flowers that never died and magic that could be called upon in need.)

He runs his hand over his scalp, fighting the urge to take her hand as many of her previous visitors had done. Cassandra, urging her to get up, for there was much work still to be done (and, having found an unlikely friend, unwilling to give her up to the Maker so soon) and Bull, his hand engulfing hers as he talks about the dragons waiting in Emprise du Lion (and, below that, that her demons are as scary as his and that dammit, she should fight.)

(He watches them all, but they do not see him there. The Dread Wolf has ever been able to hide in plain sight.)

When she wakes she calls his name, but by then he has gone.


	3. post-breakup angst, Solas POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-breakup angst, Solas POV

He expected her to yell—or cry, or fight. He did not expect her silence.

 _It will never happen again_.

Maybe by now he should have realized what he expected was never what came to pass.

She dropped her arms, the hurt in her eyes quickly hidden by a formidable wall. And to think he thought the Dalish didn’t build walls. She laced her hands behind her back as he so often did.

And then… she left. No word or gesture of goodbye, no sign that he’d been there at all. In the moment he said it would never happen again it was as if it had never happened at all. The thought ate at him from Crestwood to Skyhold. He followed her hart’s tracks, but they never wavered or slowed, except to rest. They never turned around.

Lavellan was not a quiet woman by nature. Her voice had been one among many in a clan, but expected to rise above them all. Varric had told her to mind her  _indoor voice_. She didn’t. She laughed, wild and free, her cheeks bright and grin wide, hair tumbling out of Scout Harding’s attempt at a plait. He loved it. Loved  _her._ She was everything the elves had been and could be again, but-

 _“What have you done_?”

Solas’ attention was brought to the woman in front of him. Not Lavellan, no, though the sharp tone and demanding question were closer to what he’d expected from her. It was Cassandra.

She made a disgusted noise at his confusion and gestured to Skyhold’s throne. Lavellan was sitting in it, going over reports with Josephine. She never sat on the throne—only did when duty absolutely required it of her. Her dark hair was bound, not a wisp out of place, and her face was solemn. He tried to decipher what they were speaking of, but her voice was low. Josephine looked delighted, but Solas could feel nothing but despair.

Her spirit burned as brighty as before—not even he could dampen that. But where it had been a wildfire, it was now a controlled burn. She’d found her edges and pulled them in tight.

He’d thought the Dalish didn’t build walls. She’d made a castle, and a throne at the center of it.


	4. post-breakup angst, Lavellan POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Chapters 2 & 3, but it isn't necessary to read that first!

She pulls herself up.

Varric would say “by her bootstraps,” but the Dalish don’t wear boots. The ice between her toes and the splinters in her heels beg for the human comfort she allowed herself before—but no more. The painful sharpness keeps her on the dagger’s edge of focus.

She will not be distracted from her duty now.

Solas is gone—and avoiding her like the pyre—but Corypheus is coming. The Well whispers it into her bones, and it sinks in like the damp of the Fallow Mire. It feels like a ghost’s touch, and she can’t help wondering whether he had helped her stave it off. Just enough to be bearable. Just enough to be Inquisitor. Just a little bit longer.

(Her surety did not comfort her.)

He would still help, she knew, if she asked. In service to the Inquisition, not to her. She appreciated that he had stockpiled salve for her—the anchor yet bothered her, though she did not speak of it openly—but she wondered how long he’d been planning to-

She shivers, pressing her thumb into the palm of her other, glowing hand in mimed massage. The Well thrums in the back of her mind with a power not unlike blood. She’s never practiced blood magic, and she won’t give in to the voices now—not when so many demons offered her the same power in dreams.

( _Wouldn’t you like to see? See what the People could become? You could be free again. You could all be free._ )

Arlathan: her people’s hope and their condemnation. The invisible chains… and the visible ones. She does not want the Well’s memories. Not yet, at least. The voices knew why he left,but the whispers were distant—perhaps ancient—and she could not make them out.

Sometimes she wakes from dreams in the middle of the day with flowers braided in her hair—intricate knots she doesn’t remember her hands making. Her fingertips land on an embrium bud tucked behind her ear and a book, written in a language she can’t read, sits open in her lap. Though she doesn’t speak the language, she does recognize the neat script on the notes tucked inside.

(She flings it across the alcove with a shout, her fingers ripping flowers from her hair, but she pretends not to notice when Dorian tucks it back onto the shelf later.)

She pulls herself up. She is the Inquisitor. She is the Inquisition.

She will lead.

( _Or they will fall_.)


	5. mid-romance ending angst, shared POV

He can feel it underneath his skin. The lies, the half truths, the truth. Sometimes he can’t tell the difference between that itch and the thinning veil.

The truth has claws and it fights to surface. It hides under his tongue and curls in his knuckles when he brushes them through her hair. He clenches his fist and tries to focus, but it's a lost cause—like so many of his others. 

_Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?_

He isn’t in the rotunda, but she knows where he’ll be. Her bare feet linger on each stone step as she descends. There’s a small library near the vault and wine cellar. The door is open and the light of a lone candle spills into the antechamber.

He stands in front of the desk, a huge tome in front of him. He isn’t reading it—the pages haven’t been turned since she first discovered the room while exploring Skyhold. Despite the renovations they’ve undertaken and cleaning they’ve done, the room remains shrouded in cobwebs and a film of dust. The only disturbance is footsteps, one in front of the other, in the dust.

She adds another, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Come back to bed," she says.  _Come back to me_ , she means.

He does,  _but he won’t_.


	6. post-breakup gossip angst, Lavellan POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it's more post-breakup angst because I can't write anything else apparently? the sad is my bones get it out bring me DLC and fluff

She hears them talking in the hall.  _Of course_  she hears them talking in the hall. They never forget how sharp her ears are, but today they are distracted from them in lieu of their discussion: what they’re going to wear to a wedding.

 _Her_  wedding.

She can’t decide if she wants to cry or laugh, but her stomach turns and she curls the anchor into it. She can’t deny she’d thought of it in passing—of course she knows Solas didn’t promise her forever, couldn’t even promise dreams (wouldn’t?)

They wanted a  _shem_  wedding. White dress, Grand Cathedral, the new Divine. Flowers from the Arbor Wilds and the finest frilly cakes.

Who would give her away, in their fantasy? Her Keeper was dead, her clan and family gone just like her vallaslin. Another Keeper wouldn’t stand in—she’d given her heritage and birthright to him like it were a kiss on the cheek, but he didn’t have a real name for himself, much less one to share.


	7. Hahren, T Fluff, Solas POV (minor JoH spoilers)

They’ll never see the books piled in stacks around her bed. There’s a teacup on one, empty, and a plate of food on another, full. Maybe they notice the dark circles and sunken cheeks, and he’s sure some have noticed the ink smudges on her hands, quill still clumsy with foreign characters, but they don’t see her like this.

She’s asleep at her desk, face stuck to a piece of parchment. It may be the only ink he likes on her, but Vivienne would be appalled to see the characters inching along her cheek in reverse script. She’s beautiful in the moonlight though, her candle worn down to a guttering stub and her hair falling over her shoulders. He’s happy to see her sleeping, even if it is at her desk. Again.

She slips her requests for books in with his—always weary of appearing uneducated, the Dalish heathen everyone expects. Nobility, history, the underworld, magic, nothing is outside her purview. He knows, he wishes he didn’t know, that when she has questions she splits them between her companions so she isn’t a bother. She didn’t think she was Keeper material, she told him, even if she’d had magic.

She practices table manners with Josephine, dancing with Scout Harding, court intrigue and Orlesian with Leliana. Cassandra is teaching her the Chant. Dorian, Krem and Iron Bull are teaching her to drink and speak Tevinter (different dialects, very different slang) in equal parts. Vivienne teaches her court manners. Cullen guides her through troop movements using Archon (because you can’t cheat when it’s real). Horse-riding with Blackwall and Master Dennet. Alchemy (he tries not to reflect on this much) with Sera and laughter with Varric. She helps weed in the herb garden and she fetches every bundle of elfroot and packet of decorative gems her requisitions officers ask for.

But she calls him hahren.

As if he had anything to teach her.

He never thought to learn so much about the People from a quickling Dalish so young her vallaslin are still slightly raised. He brushes thick strands of hair away from her face, hidden mostly in the crook of her elbow over—he pauses to check—reports on troop movements in the Exalted Plains. Her eyelashes flutter, a hunter’s instinct, but her breathing evens when he plumps the fade around her as if it were a feather pillow.

He gathers her in his arms, picking her up out of the chair. Perhaps in front of others he would have to feign a show of weakness, but not here. Not in her chambers. She doesn’t ask him to give any more than he’s wiling to, but he’s known he’s an old fool for a long time. He’s fallen in love with a fleeting wisp in the midst of civil war and revolution, and they’ve seen where this story is going.

The Hero of Ferelden. Ameridan and Telana. Andraste and Maferath. Tyrdda. Mythal. Martyred, murdered, ears docked or betrayed, all. His Lavellan would not join their ranks.

After he set her down in her (ridiculous) Orlesian bed, he tried to turn away. She’d wanted more books on Qunari culture, she’d said. And on regional trade in Orlais, drought prevention measures and interesting new theories about magic’s affect on the soil. He should order them, mix paint... and he’d been promising Blackwall a rematch (that he would win) for far too long. But her fingers were locked weakly with his—mostly still asleep.

“Stay?” she asked, her voice hoarse with sleep. And how could he refuse?

He laid down, pulling the blanket over them both. She woke enough to pull herself to him, her hands fisting in the poorly woven wool of his tunic, her head resting under his chin. He smiled, too, his hands coming up to rest on her back. With a contented sound, she slipped easily back into the fade. In time, he did as well.


	8. Ensemble Fluff (minor JoH spoilers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold protects its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avoid Cassandra's if you don't want JoH spoilers. Minor references to my Warden, Acre Tabris, who (originally and in the canon of this story, though not in my canon any longer) performed the ultimate sacrifice.

**Varric**  thought he recognized daisy in her at first—but she is not a fragile flower, reaching up to the sun. She  _is_  the sun—to more people than she realizes. He wonders when she learned how to hide behind words instead of trees. He thinks that story from the tavern might have even been true, once. He thinks too much.

 **Hawke**  thinks the Inquisitor could use a drink. She looks like the Gallows mages did, or maybe like Anders. No, not like Anders. Hawke never worried about keeping anyone other than her friends alive–couldn’t think about it. The Herald of Andraste  _must_. She sympathizes. Buys her a pint. Tells her to let her know if she ever wants her to go piss crystal hunting.

 **Vivienne**  shares only one thing with the Inquisitor (and with not inconsiderable surprise on Vivienne’s part): a taste for exquisite fabric. As a nod to the independence of the Inquisition she concedes masks for the ball at Halamshiral. When it’s all over and Corypheus is defeated, the Inquisitor tries to commission one. Vivienne is kind and stern in equal measures when she disallows it. “Your mask is beautiful enough, my dear.”

 **Dorian** plies her with drinks and rare books. He runs his hands through her hair when she falls asleep in the library and slips muted fire runes into her bedding for when she doesn’t. Canonizing her, he thinks, is one more human thievery the elves may never recover from.

 **Krem**  keeps offering to do things. Take the Chargers to help excavate Haven? Done. Last week a group picked the Hinterlands clean because the Inquisitor mentioned a need for crystal grace and Stiches and Dalish weren’t around to tell them what it looked like. Skyhold had fresh flowers in every room for a week and Cole took to wearing poorly woven flower crowns.

 **Solas** paints because he wants her to know, even after he leaves, how deeply he cares for her. He wants the world to remember how important she was, how she shaped the world. He wants them to remember so that in a thousand years she isn’t a twisted bedtime morality tale. She will not be a slave to anyone, not even her own tale. He puts the stacks of books next to her bed away and gently removes the parchment she’s fallen asleep on. He will not be able to care for her forever, he knows, but for more time than he deserves.

 **Iron Bull**  gives her some of his hot cocoa and finds horn balm on his pillow the next day. They are both comforted by the casual, familial intimacy of rubbing it in. After that, Bull finds reasons to touch her. She brightens each time, used to the easy affections of her clan in the same way he misses home.

 **Blackwall** ’s talent for wood carving extends to small pieces. He makes a tiny aravel for the Inquisitor’s desk, where it sits proud, sun shining through the red sails. The Inquisitor doesn’t speak to him for a week after he gives it to her, until finally she comes into the stable and hugs him for a long, long time. He clears his throat and ignores her tears for her pride, but promises 

 **Sera**  doesn’t bring up “elfiness” anymore—not since supreme arse elfy mcelfington flew the coop. Instead, she wraps her arms around her friend and asks her when they’re going dragon hunting, when they’re making cookies next. She starts a prank war with Leliana to distract her and turns away Red Jennies looking to cause mischief, because if the Inquisitor ever gets too big for her britches it’ll be her to knock her down a peg.

At first,  **Cassandra**  is surprised—a Dalish leading the new Inquisition? By the time they reach the Frostback Basin she has grown accustomed to her friend’s leadership, her strength that seemingly stems from a faith different, but not so different, from her own. After the Exalted Plains, after the Emerald Graves (Marches), after the Basin… she is ashamed. The Chantry has been quick to forget the sacrifices Ameridan, Telana and even Shartan made, quick to dock ears and revise historical record. She will not forget the Inquisitor or the values of the Inquisition, she vows, and neither shall history.

 **Cullen**  believes their campaign is hopeless. He never mentions it, tries not to consider it, but he believes they will lose. He knew the Hero of Ferelden, after all, and he knows these stories don’t end like the ones told at bedtime. But then they have mounts and a fine horsemaster, a fortified castle in the mountains, diplomatic authority across Thedas, a steady stream of recruits and supplies… an Inquisitor. Then he thinks they might have a chance.

 **Harding**  braids her hair, taming the thick, dark waves with something akin to magic. Intricate plaits and combs become the style in Orlais, all because of a dwarf named Lace.

 **Leliana**  eats private dinners with the Inquisitor nearly every night. The Inquisitor could have been a bard in another life with her knowledge of Orlesian language and politicking, but the bardic arts are more than that. Cullen says Leliana has a bit of a blind spot for Wardens, pretending very much that neither see the ones for mages and elves. The Warden was a friend. Insatiably curious and kind in the same way, the Inquisitor could be, too, but this time Leliana will not see her sacrificed to duty or tradition.

She is cloaked in ice and lightning and fire and she tries to help everyone.  **Cole** likes that. They can see him now, but she could always see him. And the druffalo is happier back home. 

 **Josephine**  hangs Dalish drapery and orders Dalish Serault glass. She asks the Inquisitor to consult to make sure the designs are correct and hugs her when the Inquisitor’s eyes fill. The decor and heraldry she will concede, but her friend will have a bit of home so far from it. When it’s all over she takes the Inquisitor to Antiva and takes a reverse contract with the Crows—protect the Inquisitor at all costs, just as the Inquisition does.


	9. The Things She Can't Say Anymore, T Fluff, Lavellan POV

She likes that the little scar on his forehead disappears into his eyebrow furrowing and nose scrunching when he's frustrated. His eyes remind her of the storm coast. His hands are... utterly distracting. Long fingers never splattered with ink or paint, but, instead, with freckles. She likes it when he steeples them in front of him in thought and when his knuckles turn white at the injustices they see in the Hinterlands. The way he wrote was a magic all its own: perfectly trimmed quills and the right amount of ink, his fine penmanship sprawling across the page like he'd never worried over the cost of paper a day in his life.

She likes watching him paint in broad, sure strokes. She wishes she spent as little time second guessing the subjects he paints as he does his color choices. His hand is steady, his posture immaculate as always. Sometimes she’s not sure if she wants to be him or be with him.

She likes it when he talks to her, especially when they're in the rotunda, her head in his lap. She likes it when when he reads the chantry scholars because they never fail to make him angry. His accent caresses words, especially elven words, in a way she’s never heard before. She likes that he knows what he does to her.

She likes it when he distracts Bull with chess and comforts Cole. She likes that when he talks to Dorian about magic or culling the library of stupidity they both light up, excited and passionate about their studies. She even likes it when her companions tease her about their relationship and overhearing gossip about them in the throne room.

She likes that he plays the servant at Halamshiral, but leads her in a nobleman's dance. He plays the game like he's constructing a phrase. Beautifully. Exactly. He leads her, and she thinks she would follow him anywhere.

She likes it when he turns over in bed and whispers elven into her hair or buries his fingers in it, his nose against her jaw. She likes that he's insufferable when he's right, which he usually is, and also when he's wrong. She likes the feel of his knit sweater beneath her hands when she bunches her fists in it and the taste of him when she presses her mouth to his.

And then they go to Crestwood and she must find other things she likes when she returns alone. She finds she likes helping Cullen test recruits against dampened magic and drinking with Sera. She likes woodcarving with Blackwall (even though she's terrible) and sitting in Skyhold's garden—the one dedicated to a stranger God.

She likes fighting dragons and helping Dagna craft. She likes dancing with Lace and "shooting practice" with Dalish that always ends with an injury.

She likes all of those things.

But she loved him.


	10. pre-Trespasser epilogue exposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some pre-Trespasser epilogue hopes.

It feet like the first deep breath she’d taken in two years. _He_ was always her anchor, no matter the glow in her palm. A haven in Haven. The man who gave his life for the future in one that didn’t exist, but left her in this world for “in another.”

 _Creators_ , she’d missed him.

 

Skyhold emptied much as it filled up. Soldiers went back to their farms in time for harvest and, with them, Dorian. He said he refused to stay the winter in a drafty castle (a hothouse orchid, indeed) and left for Minrathous before the passes closed. Neither Bull nor Krem could follow, so the Chargers stayed behind. They were no longer on Inquisition pay (keeping a mercenary group on payroll didn’t exactly engender trust in their neighboring countries), but Bull started writing letters home again—only this time, his home was Skyhold, not Seheron.

Varric left, too, back to the city where he could mourn its champion and help rebuild. Inara didn’t think he’d ever forgive her, but it had been Hawke’s choice. A choice to help the Grey Wardens—and her brother—when she could have said she’d given enough of herself to the history books. Fenris entered an easy alliance with the Chargers: killing Vints and slavers in equal measure and pleasure.

Under Loghain’s direction, Blackwall returned to the Inquisition as liaison. He looked younger without his beard and the weight of men’s lives on his shoulders. Cassandra rebuilt the Seekers of Truth, and, with Cullen, led the remaining, uncorrupted Templars in renewed purpose: justice, answering only to its ties with the Divine and the Inquisition.

The legend of Red Jenny grew, bringing nightmares to wealthy nobles and landowners across the continent. After a few too many drinks, Inara played at least a small part in the new urban legend that if you said “Red Jenny” three times in front of a mirror she would put an arrow through your throat. The Orlesian nobles tittered in nervous amusement, but her ladyship Mai Balsitch of Korse snorted, her loud laughter drawing the attention of the room.

Vivienne returned to Val Royeaux, and, much to her dismay, found herself politically irrelevant. The Emperor’s court was not what the Empress’ was. The Circles were disbanded, and the Divine uncompromising. Madame de Fer began criticizing the Inquisition’s reach and influence almost as soon as Corypheus fell, but now she was finding allies and supporters. She was amassing a power base and war chest that all but declared she would have a place in the new world order or there would _be_ no order.

Cole remained, helping where he could and learning the ropes of humanity. Dagna was content in her bubble of creation and experimentation amidst the swelling ranks of the College of Enchanters, established under Fiona’s directive and Inara’s blessing. Inara and Josephine worked tirelessly to establish the Inquisition’s new presence as a place of learning and guidance, swords sheathed but maintained.

The Skyhold branch of the college accepted mages from any station or means, Dalish elf to highborn Orlesian. She hoped, in time, that initiates of the Seeker order would be trained alongside them.

A year ago, Skyhold was host to Arlathvhen, the meeting of the Dalish clans. Halamshiral had no longer seemed a suitable location after Celene’s purge. The Dalish, unlike the rest of Orlais, had not forgotten. Elves have long memories, and they had not forgotten that Halamshiral’s streets too often ran with elven blood. Briala attended and so did clan Lavellan, saying little of her missing vallaslin. She could feel the questions, but had no answers that would satisfy them. At the gathering the Inquisition handed the history of the Red Crossing and Inquisitor Ameridan over to the clans. Briala was granted a halla for her friendship to the Dalish, and Inara was granted leniency for her face’s heresy. The Keepers sat with Inquisition scholars and scribes to record their history. She’d tried and succeeded in convincing them that while oral tradition had its place, Red Crossing and Ameridan’s heritage proved all too well that it could be twisted or forgotten.

Once, he’d told her that the Dalish were so wrong they were incapable of seeing what was real. She aimed to prove him wrong.

 

She fadestepped in front of him, throwing her arms around him. He stiffened, but she breathed him in, stretching up to reach around his shoulders. Then she pulled away, shy, one hand still lingering in the fur thrown over his shoulder.

"Are you real?" she asked. He swallowed, but nodded, his eyes a dark slate on her. His brows were furrowed in confusion. "Then that's enough."

He hesitated, but slowly lifted his hand to hold hers where it still gripped the fur.

_For now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to get this out before it's relegated to AU status. This is my epilogue, plus a little bit of Trespasser. More to come, I'm sure!
> 
> Also, sorry for any typos/grammatical weirdness—I'm very, very sick and have taken a lot of cold medicine (that doesn't really seem to be helping? ???? @immune system y u do dis)


	11. Post-Trespasser epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Trespasser DLC.

The former Inquisitor musters the remnants of the Inquisition in an informal alliance with only one goal—thwart her former lover. 

That is what history will say, if he does not succeed. Sometimes, in the former War Room, she even believes it herself. But the truth is that that is only the story that will be told if they do not succeed.

She is no agent of Fen’Harel, no slow arrow ready to strike at his opposition’s hearts. She sends his spies back to him intact (which was more than any other sovereign power would do), bearing but one message: the Dread Wolf hunts alone no longer. Often they returned to his encampment in better armor, with extra potions and supplies packed away.

He sends more spies, of course, seeming to forget that she was once sworn to Dirthamen’s service and surprised Corypheus (who had, in turn, tricked the Dread Wolf) while spying at the Conclave. She was no stranger to spycraft, and she was no stranger to him.

Perhaps some of the inner circle suspects, or at least wonders. Dorian, she thinks, knows she’s up to something, but questions her not a bit when slaves start disappearing from Tevinter, heading south with brighter eyes than a slave had any right to own.

Varric must know, though he also says nothing. Kirkwall is Wycome’s foremost trading partner, after all, and he must know that Wycome has become something of an elven pilgrimage. Some of the mass exodus could be explained by the novelty of an elven city council, but it was too many too fast. His only response was to appoint Merrill of Sabrae Clan as his go between.

Cole probably knows as well, though she’s torn between wondering if the reason he hasn’t tried to kill her yet is because he’s too human to feel the incoming hurt so acutely or if he, like Solas, wants the world’s dying days to be peaceful.

Do the others know? She doubts it. They would try to stop her. It is a betrayal, she knows, but the People must be her priority. It has been too many winters for her to turn her back on their future… even for those shemlen she has grown to love.

She’s stopped reaching for him in her dreams. Instead, she shares her life with the space he may or may not decide to inhabit—focusing on memories in Skyhold and fun in her clan. She shows him the mural yet unfinished and Dagna’s new invention for her missing arm. She visits Kirkwall and shows him Darktown, visits Denerim and shows him the alienage. She shows him Leliana’s new nugs and the restored, illuminated Canticle of Shartan.

And she misses him. But there’s work to do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people on tumblr are freaking out about Solas apologists, but *shrugs* tbh I've wanted an elven revolution since the Denerim slums the first time I opened Origins. This is like... the culmination of everything I've wanted for the series. Maybe not enough romantic closure for my poor Lavellan, but if you've read this far you know Inara isn't exactly passive about her heritage or oppression (for magic or ears).


	12. Elven Halamshiral AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the revolution grew, the Dread Wolf still played the Game. Wicked hearts and wicked eyes have always ruled Halamshiral, but this time he finds a fitting partner.
> 
> May be continued in the next chapter or moved to a separate work.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" she asked, though it wasn't really a question, his fingers trailing down her spine just above her tailbone.

"I am not  _trying_ ," he said, running his nose up the length of her jaw from her ear, a jaw obligingly tilted to offer him greater access. "I am  _succeeding_."

"You play a dangerous game. Where are the prolonged glances, the whispered words in alcoves? Where are the coy words at dinner prompting scandal amidst the servants?” her voice got lower, softer, as she spoke. He moved to take her into his arms, but she danced away, eyes sparkling under her gilded mask.

“Oh, you wish to be properly seduced?” he asked, fingers petting down her back, arched by her corset and putting her tan, flushed breasts on display more and more the further she continued.

“Do you even know who I am?” she asked. He cast his eyes down her neat figure. Moderate bosom, delicate embroidery. She wore few jewels, which could be an indication of taste rather than wealth as what jewels she wore were exquisite, dark emeralds dripping into her cleavage, aurum finely wrought into leaves. Her dress was well-made, if a tad large on her, fixed to her with tightly drawn laces his fingers itched to undo. No, he did not know who she was, but he craved to find out. After all, he had always appreciated the value of hands-on learning.

She smiled at the lack of response, the slim line of her lips tilting to one side in a motion her hips followed. “I’ll see you around,  _Wolf_.”

Her words snapped him out of his trance, the kind of lethargic sensuality he’d spent many years enjoying as part of the evanuris. He had a mission of his own, one that involved neither pretty words or pretty women. He bowed and she curtseyed, delicately sinking to the polished marble floor, too low for a curtsey to a peer, before sauntering away, her dress swishing across the floor. He had not asked if she knew who  _he_  was.

Curiosity itched the back of his mind, but as he’d remembered: he had work to do.

* * *

Later, social disgraces maneuvered and plays in the Great Game decided, he moved to the balcony for a breath of air unpolluted by those inside. He sat his glass on a servant’s tray and she nodded low to him, retreating inside and leaving him to his solitude. To his surprise, she returned in a moment, tray proffered onto another.

This time he looked at her and recognized the bits of herself she’d shown before—petite build, delicate wrists and ears, secretive emerald eyes that had peeked at him from behind an intricate mask. His eyes also swept over the parts of herself she’d hidden: the callused palms with kid skin gloves and her  _vallaslin_ , Dirthamen's owl in flight on her brow. He bowed low.

“My lady,” he said. She laughed, pressing her fingertips to her lips.

“Clearly not,” she said, but she stepped closer to him anyway, her chest scant inches from his own. Their heat pushed way the chill outside and he fought the urge to press himself to her in search of more. “I apologize for the deception, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to meet the rebel wolf.” Her voice lowered, “you’re much more tame than they said. A pity.”

“They?” his eyes caught on her  _vallaslin_ , “Dirthamen? Is that who your master favors?”

“In a way,” she said, mirth held in her eyes. He rubbed his fingers down her bare arms, covered in gooseflesh at the chill.

“I must go now. It has been a pleasure,” he said. If one of Dirthamen’s favored nobles sent a slave to tempt him, surely that would take action. Especially since she  _was_  so tempting, even in servant’s garb that belied her attitude.

Before he turned, however, her fingers caught in the fine fur over his shoulder.

“I want to join you,” she said, her voice serious for the first time that night. His brows knitted together. “I… wanted to meet you on equal terms. To see if what they said about you was true.”

“And is it?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked. Her hand inched up the fabric at his chest and he closed his eyes at the flare of arousal that threatened to steal his focus.

“Take them away. Please.” He looked around the balcony, just out of view of the ball.

“Not here. Meet me in my quarters,” he said. Her face fell just slightly and she made to step away. His words seemed to have proven something she’d thought true all along.

“Perhaps I was mistaken. Good evening, messere.” He caught her arm.

“You will not be beholden to me. This is not a transaction. I would simply… rather not be caught, given that it is an executable offense to remove vallaslin without proper channels.” She nodded hesitantly.

“Tonight, then?” she asked.

“Tonight.”

* * *

He held true to his word. She was surprised. He burned the Keeper of Secrets from her face and she was embarrassed to find herself crying unfamiliar tracks down her skin, where tears would have followed the paths of her  _vallaslin_  only minutes before. She swiped at them surreptitiously with her sleeves.

“ _Ar lasa mala revas_ ,” he said, giving her the only privacy he could by looking out the window to the courtyard lit by moonlight. She turned his head toward her and kissed him, a flush rising high on her cheeks. He reciprocated in a moment, tilting her head back in the fervor of their kiss. His lips were smooth, warm, but he pulled away, shaking his head.

“If you still want this tomorrow, come to me then,” he said. She rolled her eyes at his ironclad control, even with his arousal straining against his pants. But he wished her her freedom. Her choice, not merely grateful submission. She pressed a hand to his cheek and stood, gracefully uncurling her tucked legs.

“Not so dread, are you?” she said with a smirk. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Who are you?” he asked, a small smile on his lips. She leaned down to peck his cheek and gave him her own wide smile.

“I’ll let you know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... idk? What do you guys think? I could definitely move this to another work and write a smut chapter to follow but I'm kind of happy with the open-endedness. Hmm. Fluff Friday, nevertheless. There's flirting without death or Templars, oh my!
> 
> Inspired by ithesalesman on tumblr!


	13. Solas POV Breakup Reasoning

She was an enigma, their Herald of Andraste. Yet the more time he spent with her, more he wanted to delve into her secrets like the _vir abelasan_. To _know her_ , and drink in as much of her time as he could—while they still had it.

Proud of her heritage, certain of her belonging with her people, yet just as certain that the Dalish had many improvements to make. In another life he might have wondered what spirit of Curiosity touched her birth, marking her as one of them. She darted from landmark to landmark across southern Thedas and read by veilfire when the sun was not high enough to travel.

He said she had a wisdom unlike any he’d seen for ages, but it wasn’t entirely true. He saw wisdom in Cassandra and in Mother Giselle, despite their faulty reliance on their Maker. In her he saw so much more. She was industry tempered by compassion and she was charity. To him, she was remembrance. To him, she might be deliverance—if he’d let her.

But he could not afford the _geas_ that loving her would put him under. The People needed him, after all, and she was but one of them, no matter how brightly she shone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I finally solidified my thoughts on "why" so maybe now I can focus on my super happy, fluffy Road trip!AU fic and Dissonant Verses
> 
> nah let's be real I can't get enough of this angst h e l p


	14. Post-Trespasser angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He takes her arm, but its only physical evidence of how much the Inquisition has been taking from her from the start.

She was tired.

She’s had the sand of the Hissing Wastes between her toes, and has embrium leaves from the Emerald Graves stuck in the pages of her favorite book. She saw the dead rise in Crestwood and travelled to Deep Roads so deep they are no longer roads.

He takes her arm, but its only physical evidence of how much the Inquisition has been taking from her from the start. They took her gods, her _home_. So she took her solace where she could find it, and she can’t bring herself to be ashamed. Her people—not _The People,_ she—are dying. The elves, the mages…

She thought it would end on the pyre, her ears docked in the histories of the world. Ameridan taught her that well enough. But she’d hoped…

“Let the blade pass through the flesh,

Let my blood touch the ground,

Let my cries touch their hearts.

Let mine be the last sacrifice."

But she wasn’t their Andraste. She’d fucked her heathen god, but she’d called him her _vhenan_ and betrayed no mortal husband. Her ears were knife sharp and hands held magic rather than bowls of fire.

So she makes a half-hearted excuse to Leliana after disbanding the Inquisition and leaves. She takes shelter in the crossroads because she is not afraid of him or his people, and she waits. The world will burn, but this time she will not burn with it.

 


	15. post-breakup angst (Trevelyan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written because I had the last line stuck in my head and a long history with Tamora Pierce novels. Featuring Trevelyan (because the plot kinda falls apart without human-ness).

She’s afraid of the dark. Not that she’d ever tell anyone that, but call it too many nights spent under the open stars or call it struggling to survive in the cold, the night oppressive and seemingly endless as she searched for warm ashes and the people who'd left them behind. If she were an _elf_ , she would be able to see, and perhaps have a better grasp both on the elven magic on her palm and the winding eluvian paths.

He knew, though. After Haven, after she struggled through the cold and wet, she’d had nightmares of Despair demons trapped underground, and of turning into one herself if she’d never gotten out. She’d shivered fireside, waiting for dawn to come in an Inquisition camp, and he had fetched a small, still smoldering coal from the campfire, encasing it in a glass pendant with the flick of a wrist. It wasn't truly enough light to see by, but it was  _enough_ , clasped in the fist that didn’t glow.

She wears it under her dress at Halamshiral, heat at her breastbone to remind her it was still there. She wears it into the fade, wondering, if she were a dreamer, would it ease her fears? She wore it when he came to her room, her hips too wide and his ears too sharp, but making it work.

The dragon problem at Emprise du Lion had waited long enough. With Corypheus dead, she could no longer ignore the requests from villagers—or Bull and Sera—to handle the final dragon. In its death throes, though, the dragon’s tail catches her, sending her flying through the air and crashing into the ancient bathhouse rocks.

The small, but tough, barrier around the glass was sustained by her own mana, and then it wasn't. Perhaps he’d known he was leaving, even then. But ever pragmatic, it stopped leeching that small amount of mana when she was in distress—when she was fighting a dragon, for instance.

Her companions approached as she struggled to sit up, pulling off her breastplate to survey the damage. The pendant shattered, sticky blood and shards under her metal armor, and she couldn’t help the tears that welled, an ache rising in her chest that made her feel short of breath. In the Circle, she’d had little by way of possessions—as if the templars worried mages would be infected by way of word association. As Inquisitor, she had many. But only one given to her when she felt at her lowest without judgement—only one given to her by  _him_. Vivienne raised a hand to heal her with an air of dismissal.

“It was glass, darling. It was never going to last."

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at [considermehacked on tumblr](http://considermehacked.tumblr.com/)


End file.
